


sit still in the boat when the wind blows

by malkinisms (hannibalisms)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalisms/pseuds/malkinisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lagertha sits on the shore, carefully sharpening her seax as the children play.  They don’t have much time to do so, not really, so any chance they get pleases her deep inside her core, warming her from the inside out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sit still in the boat when the wind blows

**Author's Note:**

> _sitta stilla i båten när det blåser_  
>  (sit still in the boat when the wind blows) 
> 
> also [here on tumblr](http://hannibalisms.tumblr.com/post/46738942120/prompties-ragnar-athelstan-lagertha-curly-haired)
> 
>  
> 
> all children after Björn and Gyda are MADE UP BY ME but are generally named after who people think Ragnar’s sons actually were

Lagertha sits on the shore, carefully sharpening her seax as the children play.  They don’t have much time to do so, not really, so any chance they get pleases her deep inside her core, warming her from the inside out.

Björn has grown from the lanky lad receiving his first arm ring to one they call Björn Järnsida; he always tells her that he is  _not a child, mother_ , but he still makes sure to listen when she tells the little ones sagas of great warriors.

He sits with her on the shore, fletching arrows with eagle feathers for the hunt two days hence. He doesn’t talk much, this son, but more than makes up for it with his skill in battle.

Björn looks up at the baying of dogs, over to the west and the sea, and the hunting dogs come tumbling over the rise and into the water.  Björn laughs as they come from the water, soaking and baying and rolling on him, until they’re called away.

The dogs still bark as they vanish over the crest of the hill and Lagertha laughs along with her son as the other children stand from their places and shriek for their fathers.

_Fathers_  - after all these years, it’s still not something she is used to hearing.

Gyda moves closer to her mother, not yet going to meet the returning ships.

“Mamma,” she says, “Pappa has returned.”

“Yes,” she answers, “but wait until the morrow to tell him about Egil.  Egil is a good lad, but give him a night’s rest.”

“Yes, Mamma,” Gyda answers, glancing a kiss across her cheek and then joining her younger siblings over the hill.

“He’s a good man, Mamma.  A strong warrior.  He’d care for Gyda.”  Björn smiles as he stands, leaving the arrows behind with her.

She sits, watching the waves from the wind lapping at the shore, hearing the laughs of the children and the women over the hill as they welcome back the men.  She can’t find herself happy, just because of the state she was in when they left, the two of them, leaving her with two teenagers and one middling and two young berserkers and the little one, all energy and no outlet.

“Mamma, Mamma, look!” Ubbe throws himself over her shoulders, hands filled with a wooden sword that is clearly Ragnar’s handiwork, something done on the long trip around the coast.  ”Signe got one too!”

Signe charges down the hill, sword in her hands and the shield that Lagertha gave her in the other, scattering the ducks and geese pecking through the grass.

“You shall be proper warriors now, hmm?”

“Yes, Mamma, and then we can go with Björn and Pappa on hunting trips!”

He runs to join his sister, his twin, and they mock fight until the swords are flung away and they tussle in the grass.  They’re only 10 summers now, brown hair curling around their shoulders and Lagertha finds herself thinking that perhaps they need a trim.

Hjördis settles next to her, curling her hand into her mother’s.  She only 14, blossoming into herself but still shy, her sweet girl.  ”What did your Pappa bring you?”

“Fader brought me a new loom, just like I wished for.”

“No wooden sword for you, then?” Lagertha says with a smile, nudging her daughter’s shoulder.

Hjördis smiles a little, then looks back up the hill.  ”Fader and Pappa were looking for you, I told them you were here.  Janne is with Aslaug.  Should I fetch him?”

“No, let him stay with her for a bit.  She adores him.”

Hjördis leans her head on her mother’s shoulder, picking at the stray threads in her sleeves.  ”Are you still angry at Pappa and Fader?”

“No, my darling,” Lagertha sighs, “not at all.”

“All right,” Hjördis says, plucking a [Blåveis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hepatica_nobilis_plant.JPG) from the ground and tucking it behind her mother’s ear, smiling and pressing a kiss against her cheek and then running back up the hill to join her brother and sister.

She can hear someone walking down the hill over the shrieking of Ubbe and Signe, who are now covered in mud and grass and sand, and they’ll be cleaning their own clothing tonight because they were the ones who mussed them.  She has no patience for washing tonight.

A chin rests on her shoulder, and she knows that it’s Athelstan by scent alone.  His arms wrap around her middle and he’s still skinny, no matter how long he’s been here with them.  He’s wiry where Ragnar is thick, and  prone to freckle where Ragnar just turns brown.  His fingers are clenched around something, and she looks down when they open.

It’s a [gold girdle hanger](http://research.uvu.edu/mcdonald/Anglo-Saxon/arts/girdle2.jpg), set with gems and delicately made, clearly touched by the hand of a master.  The pins have heads of garnet, connected to a delicate chain.  The connecting links look like the head of a dog or a wolf.  Even though she knows that she is the head of the household, a shieldmaiden, [this marks her](http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/pe_mla/c/copper_alloy_girdle-hanger.aspx) as the authority in their household.

“A wolf, for my warrior,” Athelstan says, his knees pressing into the dip of her back, warm and bony.  ”Do you like it?”

“A gift to woo your way back into my good graces?”

“ _Nej_ ,” he says, drawing it out, his accent as poor as ever, “just a gift.  I saw it and thought of you.”

He pins it to her skirt, brushing bits of grass and dirt from the pleats made by how she’s sitting.  She turns to him, finally, and lets him kiss her.  His beard is long, now, finally a proper man, his hair tied back in plaits, curled and crusted with salt water.

“You are still angry,” he says as she turns away, and presses his nose behind her ear where her hair has curled and coiled.  ”I am sorry for that, but not sorry that you stayed and we went.”

“No, I was jealous,” she corrects, “but then I understood.  It does not make it easier.  I could not leave Janne.”

“Mmm,” Athelstan hums, “I saw him with Aslaug.  He has grown in these months.  He still recognized us, though.”

She scoffs.  ”He is your son, he would remember you.  He was old enough to remember when you left.”

His hands begin to creep, first down her thighs, callouses catching on the weave of it, then back up until he hugs her close, huffing breaths into her ear.  He smells of smoke, and sea, and of Ragnar, and it is comforting and arousing all at the same time.

“I have missed you,” he tells her, and presses a kiss to her neck.  He tightens his arms around her middle and pulls her up with him as she stands.

She swats at his hands but he doesn’t let go, lips pressed to her neck, body to body, and he is  _warm_ , warm and lovely and  _hard_  against her back.

“I have  _missed_  you,” he repeats, and they stand at the shore, watching the children tussle for a long moment before Athelstan can pull away from her without being so obvious.  ”Ragnar’s waiting at the hall for us.”

“Ubbe!  Signe!  We’re going back!”

They roll over each other a few more times before they get up and streak back to them, Ubbe flinging himself into Athelstan’s legs and nearly bowling him over until Athelstan can regain his balance.  He kneels and Ubbe clambers onto his back and Signe snags his belt to hold on to them as they walk back, chattering and chirping like birds.

When they hit the crest of the hill they just stand for a moment, looking at the longships in the bay, and Lagertha can barely make out Floki dangling off of one of them, doing something and clearly not concerned about anyone else in Kattegat.

Signe shrieks for her father and takes off running as fast as she is able, darting in and around the crowd.  Ubbe climbs off Athelstan’s shoulders and follows her, a little slower.

“They have missed you dearly, the young ones especially,” Lagertha tells him as they begin to walk.

“We missed them, though I cannot lie and tell you that I missed their mud and grime.”

“My ever-clean,” Lagertha teases, remembering when Athelstan first came to Kattegat and was forever fastidious and so very  _foreign_  to them. _  
_

Athelstan pinches her on the waist and they weave through the crowd until they find Aslaug bouncing Janne on her bony hip.  Janne reaches for her and Lagertha takes him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, still baby-sweet and soft.

He reaches out and snags a lock of her hair and wraps it around his chubby fist and it makes Aslaug laugh before she slips away, probably to tend to some other babe.

Athelstan points with his chin and she sees Ragnar, thick and blonde and swinging Signe around while she laughs and shrieks, happy to see her father.

The elder children stand apart, just watching, remembering when they were as young and as free to shower affections on their father.  Hjördis is running her fingers over [the loom](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warp-weighted_loom) and Lagertha can see her daughter thinking of the things that she will be able to make, the cloth that she can form.

Gyda holds bolts of cloth, luxuries that she would not have gotten had Lagertha not put a hint in Athelstan’s ear that they might need a dowry soon for her.  They are rich colors and Lagertha knows that she will get the yes from her father than she seeks.

Björn holds nothing and expects nothing, knowing that he will go on the hunt and the next expedition for trade.

Lagertha hands Janne off to Gyda and waits for her husband to set down their daughter, and when he catches sight of her he takes a break, eyes wide.

“Off with you, take these things back to our home,” Ragnar tells them, and they obey with little grumbling.

Ragnar steps close and leans down, pressing his forehead to hers, eyes closed and breath coming warm over her lips.  ”Wife,” he says, and were it anyone other than Ragnar she would make them hurt, but from him it is a sweet endearment.

“Husband,” she answers, and like with Athelstan lets him kiss her but naught else.  She is still angry at Ragnar, for Ragnar was the one to suggest the trade and the one to lead them, but it’s a simmer in her where it was a rolling boil before.

“My thoughts have been filled with you since we left,” he says, “good, and not.”

“When are any of your thoughts pure,” Athelstan snorts, settling behind Ragnar like a human blanket, arms wrapped around both of them.

“Quiet, monk,” Ragnar tells him, but there is no malice behind his words, another term of affection from a rough mouth, “as though you can speak.”

Ragnar reaches out with one arm for something on top of a barrel, and comes back [with a torc](http://www.thehistoryblog.com/archives/7977), another [gleaming gift](http://www.thehistoryblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/Stirling-torc-4.JPG) that she does not expect.  He stretches it wide and settles it around her neck before reshaping it and closing it with the clasp, thumbs sweeping over her neck for a moment before pulling away.

“Come,” he says, and the three of them follow after their children.

* * *

That night, sweet and sated and between her men, one dark and one light, Ragnar presses a kiss to her stomach, where the swell of the next child is showing.

“They will be as good as the rest,” he says to her skin, “though I confess I find myself not knowing what we will do, with six of them.”

“Raise them well,” Athelstan answers, fingers tracing over her should, across her chest, over to Ragnar’s back, “just as you did the others.”

“We,” Lagertha corrects, “how  _we_  raised the others.”

“Chestnut-haired and strong,” Ragnar rumbles, moving to crawl over her legs and press himself against Athelstan, kissing up his knee, his thigh, over his stomach and then licking into his mouth.

Lagertha loves watching them together, just as she knows they like to watch her with the other.

It was curious, the first time they were all together, because Lagertha was sure that the monk would not ever come to them, too devoted to his God and his church.

But weeks later, months after when he first came to them, when Ragnar was off raiding and they were alone, the children out somewhere being miscreants, Athelstan told her.

How could God find something as love abhorrent?  How could it be true that he would not want them to love, to be happy?  That is not God, that is the twisting of the word of God.  Devotion to another, to a family, to other lives, cannot be wrong and cannot be against the word of God.

Perhaps, he said, arms curled around his knees and speaking to the ground, perhaps my God is as yours, just a different name.

Lagertha had nothing to say to him for a moment, pondering his words in the face of his prior determination to remain devout and chaste.

“Does your God not frown upon carnal relations, monk?”

Athelstan had looked up from the floor and gave her a small smile, a smile that she had not seen before.  ”I have left the abbey.  I am no longer monk, just a man of faith.”

She had ridden him until he was clawing at her hips for release.

She smiles as Athelstan groans into Ragnar’s mouth, reaching his peak, and Ragnar follows, biting into the curve of neck and shoulder, marking him where all will see.

Ragner slides back over her, mindful of her stomach, grinning sweet.

“Perhaps seven,” he says, laughing when Lagertha pinches him on the hip.

They are hers, and she is theirs.


End file.
